


Cairn

by fallen_arazil



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, POV Third Person Limited, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28043226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallen_arazil/pseuds/fallen_arazil
Summary: Eivor Varinsdottir falling in, and out of, and in, love."I'll try," Eivor gasped. "It … it bit me, Sigurd. The wolf.""What, that thing on your neck?" Sigurd replied, his tone tense. "That's hardly a bite, little one. More of a nibble. Just a littlekiss.""A kiss," Eivor repeated, voice weak, her forehead dropping against Sigurd's shoulder, her head infinitely heavy. "I've never had a kiss before."
Relationships: Eivor/Sigurd Styrbjornson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 159





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is mostly an attempt to gauge interest.
> 
> I really want to write a full-length fic about the in game and post-game (through my lens) relationship between Sigurd and Eivor, but looking at existing fic, it does not seem a super popular relationship. So I'm curious to see what reader interest is, as reader interest is what truly fuels authors like myself.

Eivor lay underneath the dead wolf for what felt like an eternity, its blood and hers steaming where it fell against the glassy ice. The beast weighed easily twice what she did—even still, perhaps she could have rolled it off, crawled away, if her life were not spilling out around her.

She had been sure, absolutely certain, that the next face she would see was Odin. The axe was still in her hand, after all. Her key to Valhalla.

It wasn't. For better, or for worse, the next face she saw was Sigurd's.

"Oh Gods, Eivor, oh Gods—" Sigurd breathed, his sea-green eyes wide, the end of his plait burned black.

"Help me," Eivor gasped out, dumbly, her voice turning to smoke as if left her mouth, "Si-sigurd, help—"

"Shush, Eivor, don't speak," Sigurd shushed her instantly, even as he had to use all his strength to shove the beast off of her. He closed his hands over her dripping throat, fingers slipping in the blood that had not already frozen. "You—you need to be brave now, Eivor," he said, sounding old beyond his years as he tore off his left sleeve and tied it around her throat, tight enough that she could feel it constrict with the beat of her heart. "I need you to climb on my back."

"I can't," Eivor sobbed. The tears never left her eyes, turning instantly to ice on her lashes. "I _can't_ ,"

"You _can_ ," Sigurd snapped back, sounding almost angry. "You can and you will," He pulled her up to sit, and then knelt down on all fours, pulling her left arm around his neck. "Come _on_."

After a moment, weeping with the agony of it, Eivor pulled herself across Sigurd's prone back. Sigurd guided her to grip her elbows, forearms across his neck, and pulled her up under the knees, rising to his feet with a grunt. "Hold on tight, Eivor. Do not let go."

"I'll try," Eivor gasped. "It … it bit me, Sigurd. The wolf."

"What, that thing on your neck?" Sigurd replied, his tone tense. "That's hardly a _bite_ , little one. More of a nibble. Just a little _kiss_."

"A kiss," Eivor repeated, voice weak, her forehead dropping against Sigurd's shoulder, her head infinitely heavy. "I've never had a kiss before."

*

Sigurd was seventeen, and Eivor twelve, when Styrbjorn announced that he had arranged Sigurd's betrothal.

It hadn't been spoken of since Eivor came to the Raven clan, but there had been a time where _she_ was to be Sigurd's wife; the bond of friendship between their two clans was to be sealed by the marriage of their heirs. Now, though—Eivor was heir only to a graveyard, while Sigurd still had duties to his clan.

It would not be for years yet, of course. Sigurd's intended was still young, not much older than Eivor.

"Do you like her?" Eivor asked, after his father's announcement, and Sigurd shrugged.

"I haven't _met_ her, wolfling. Nor has father—this was arranged between him and _her_ father when they met in Hordafylke."

"What if you _don't_ like her?"

"What if I don't?" Sigurd replied, sounding disinterested. "When I am Jarl, I can marry who I want. Until then, I marry who my father wants."

"Because you always do what your father wants," Eivor said dubiously, and Sigurd snorted into his mug of mead.

"Being married doesn't mean anything, Eivor," Sigurd explained, as if she were a child. "I don't have to love her, I don't have to _like_ her. Maybe _she_ won't like _me_."

Eivor bristled reflexively. "Why wouldn't she like you?"

Sigurd turned his face towards her, giving her a long, oddly thoughtful look, before his mouth curled up into a smile. "Indeed, Eivor—how could _anyone_ dislike me? I am, after all, _glorious_."

"Eyy, Sigurd, your whoreson—" Dag yelled, from the other side of the longhouse, "quite babysitting the whelp and come help me find the bottom of this mead barrel!"

"Ah, it seems I am needed," Sigurd said, sounding slight chagrined. "Eivor—why don't you go pass some time with Tove, she is of an age with you."

"But—" Eivor started, her tone petulant even to her own ears, but Sigurd cut her off.

"Eivor. You are part of this clan, now. You need to act like it. If you ever want to be a Raven clan warrior, a true _drengr_ , you must have everyone's respect, not just mine."

"No one's respect matters as much as yours," Eivor said.

Sigurd made a thoughtful noise. "You know, there is little I would respect more than someone who was able to make herself friend to our entire clan."

Eivor was young enough to take the blatant manipulation at face value.

*

It was two year later before they finally met Randvi in the flesh.

Sigurd was nineteen, and Randvi was sixteen. That was only two year older than Eivor herself, but there was something about Randvi's mien that made her seem much, much older that Eivor—in some ways, she seemed older than Sigurd, too, more reserved and noble, though that could have been shyness from being surrounded by a strange clan.

"She is pretty," Eivor said to Sigurd, as they watched Styrbjorn greet her and Bjarke, her father.

"She looks like a statue," Sigurd replied, sounding less derisive than simply disinterested. "I wonder if there is any flesh under all those fine garments."

"You are too much a cynic, Sigurd," Dag replied, from Sigurd's other side. "I dearly wish such a woman were promised to _me_."

"You can have Eivor," Sigurd said, and laughed when both she and Dag recoiled. "Oh, do you have some objection to the idea of my dear sister as your wife?"

"I would not wed Dag were it the eve of Ragnarok," Eivor muttered. Then, softening, "I would gladly fight beside you, Dag, but I would not bed you."

"We are in agreement on that," Dag responded. "What a poor matchmaker you are, Sigurd."

"Ah, if only you two could love each other as I love both of you," Sigurd sighed, as he threw his arms over their shoulders. "Tell me—will you fight to the death over who will stand with me at my wedding?"

Dag looked _offended_. "You must be joking. Obviously, it will be me."

Eivor didn't even argue. When she had envisioned Sigurd's marriage in the past, she was never standing _behind_ him. "I gift the honor to Dag. You told me yourself, Sigurd—marriage does not mean anything."

"Ah, you are as ever a quick study, sister," Sigurd agreed, pressing her and Dag close to his sides.

Sigurd called her 'sister' as if it were her other name. The tone Eivor used to call him 'brother', on the other hand, was anything but familial.

She overheard, as she was returning to the table, Dag saying to Sigurd, "—a married man, now. You cannot indulge her—"

"Be cautious in your words, Dag," Sigurd cut him off, darkly. "That is my sister of whom you speak."

"Your _sister_ ," Dag sneered. "Does _she_ truly know you consider her thus? Because _she_ does not look at _you_ as a brother."

*

It was years later, shortly before Sigurd left to go a'viking, that Randvi said to her, sounding tired, "You know, Eivor—I truly envy you. I wish I could have your life."

"Why?" Eivor replied, instantly. "Does Sigurd not give you everything you want?"

"Sigurd gives me everything he _can_ ," Randvi replied, "but he is not _able_ to give me everything I _want_. I know, Eivor, that _you_ envy _me_ , sometimes, but I assure you—whatever it is you want, it is not what I have."

"You do not know what I want," Eivor immediately replied, reflexively.

"I do not think you do, either," Randvi responded, her tone meditative, before she turned to return to the longhouse.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very convinced, in the game, that Eivor was in love with Sigurd. 
> 
> I was not at all convinced that he loved her back.
> 
> Which is not to say that he never could.

"As ever, a good effort, Dag," Sigurd said, clasping him by the forearm to pull him back to his feet, "but you know you will never best me."

"Never is a long time," Dag replied, but his tone was jovial, friendly. "You will become fat and lazy when you become a Jarl with babies to raise and warriors to fight your battles _for_ you."

"Whereas you will remain a bachelor all your life?" Sigurd teased. "No little Dagsons for you?"

Eivor scoffed from where she stood on the sidelines. "Gods forbid."

Dag shot her a dark look. "And you will give birth to _wolves_ , like the bride of Loki."

"You hear that, Sigurd?" Eivor called over to her brother, "Dag just compared me to a _god_."

Sigurd grinned at her over his shoulder, the brightness of his smile something she could feel on her skin. "Indeed, that is how I understood it, as well."

"Will you show us your godly prowess, then, Wolf-kissed?" Dag challenged, gesturing towards the center of the makeshift ring of stones.

Dag was three inches taller, fifty pound heavier, and seven years older than Eivor. There were disapproving murmurs among the other warriors gathered, most of them older than Eivor's fifteen years, as well, and Sigurd gave Dag a sharp look, narrow-eyed and keen.

He didn't voice any objection, though. Rather, he turned to look over his shoulder to Eivor again, head cocked, expression curious.

Expectant.

Eivor took a step forward, into the ring. "If you are so _eager_ for my fist in your face, dear friend," she said slowly, dropping her cloak, and pulling off her leather gloves one at a time, "I will be happy to oblige you."

Dag's expression went a bit blank for a moment, mouth pulled tight. "Wait, I—" he said, hesitant, as Eivor, so much smaller than him, stepped into the ring of stones.

"You challenged me, Dag," Eivor snapped. "Do you want to back out now?"

Dag looked to Sigurd—expecting, perhaps hoping, to see his disapproval, his displease at the idea.

Eivor kept her eyes on Dag. She had already seen Sigurd's expression. She knew in her gut what he wanted to see.

"… Fine," Dag said after a moment, raising his fists, sounding more resigned than eager. "Well, whelp—let's see how you—"

Eivor hit him before he even got his hands up, knocking his head to the side. It clearly took the entire circle by surprise, and there was a moment of utter silence that seemed like it lasted forever, before Dag turned his face back to her and hit back.

He hit like a warhammer. Eivor only barely kept her feet under her, her ears instantly ringing. The others around them instantly began their usually yells and cheers, screaming and spitting for blood. All but Sigurd—when the black dots faded from Eivor's vision, Sigurd was standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, and his expression was shrewd, assessing.

Eivor lunged at Dag, growling.

It was not a fair fight, not truly—everyone around them knew that. Eivor could not possibly win, not against Dag. She had neither the skill nor the physical strength. Again, and again, Dag knocked her to the ground, and again, and again … she got back to her feet, jaw swollen, mouth bloody, hands bruised, and lunged again.

"Stay _down_ , wolfling," Dag finally snapped. Dag was a not a cruel man, but he did not always think before he spoke. At least, that is how he explained later, why he said, "Follow your father's lead."

The group around them let out a brief susurration, and went silent.

And Eivor threw herself at Dag bodily with a yell.

He was not expecting it—he had perhaps shocked even himself with his words—and went down underneath Eivor's smaller frame, her fists flying at his face, knuckles quickly bloody. Only for a moment, though, before hands grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her off with a yank. She twisted over her shoulder, snarling, but immediately froze when she saw that it was Sigurd behind her.

"That was beneath you, Dag," Sigurd said lowly, loud enough only for the three of them to hear. "I am ashamed for you."

Dag, both his eyes swelling now, mouth bloody, looked ashamed himself. "Eivor, I didn't—" he tried, but Sigurd was already speaking over him, addressing the rest of the warriors.

"A surprise upset, my friends, would you not agree?" He called out, throwing his arm around Eivor's shoulders, and turning both of their backs to Dag. "Perhaps it is time you joined us on he longship, eh Eivor?"

Eivor felt like a shiver had gone down her spine. "It would be my honor."

*

Sigurd was behind him, when Dag apologized to her that evening, head bowed, as sincere she had ever heard him, "I should not have said what I said. Whatever repayment you desire, you may have."

Eivor glanced at Sigurd, and he looked very much the same as he had at the start of their fight: arms crossed, expression judging.

"We are clan, are we not, Dag?" Eivor replied after a moment. "Your remorse is enough."

And the way Sigurd raised his chin felt like approval.

*

"Do you think I am pretty?" Eivor slurred to Vili, leaning heavily against his shoulder and peering across the smoky longhouse to where Sigurd was sat at his father's right hand, Randvi beside him, a wreath of flowers in her hair.

"Ah, you could outshine even Freya, dear girl," Vili assured her, effusive in his drunkenness. "When I go to Valhalla, I can only hope the Valkyrie that guides me is half as beautiful as you."

Eivor shoved at his shoulder, nearly toppling over herself when he lurched. "You are _drunk_ ," she accused.

"And you are fishing for compliments," Vili replied. "You need only look at your reflection to know if you are pretty."

"Do you think it matters, in getting married, if I am pretty?" She mused.

"You want a _husband_?" Vili replied in disbelief. "Husbands are, I believe, far more trouble than they are worth. You should get a wife, instead—I've heard only good things about wives."

Eivor snorted into her mug. "Will you be my wife, Vili?"

"I do not think I have the hips to bear you children."

Eivor snorted again. "You are ridiculous."

"You know what is ridiculous?" Vili said, leaning close, until he was nearly close enough to kiss, "The fact that you have been hiding down here by the fire this entire night, instead of congratulating your _brother_ , who was just _married_."

Eivor froze a moment, at it being stated so plainly. "That's—I'm not _hiding_. I'm just waiting for—" Vili quirked up one eyebrow, and Eivor huffed. She downed the rest of the mead in her mug, setting her expression.

Sigurd had been accepting congratulations all evening, from the place of honor at the high table, reclining with one hand on his mug on mead, and one on the arm of Randvi's chair, her hand next to his, close but not touching. He sat up instantly when Eivor approached the table, and to Eivor's eye, there was something almost relieved about his expression.

"Congratulations to you brother, and to you, my new sister," Eivor said, even though the words felt like ash in her mouth. "I hope for many years of happiness for both you."

"Perhaps it will be your turn, soon," Sigurd replied, with a pointed look.

*

"Hemming Jarl has sent me a letter," Styrbjorn said, seated in his throne—her Jarl at that moment, and not her father. "He desires a match between you and Vili, his son."

Eivor had known, or suspected, that this was coming, ever since she turned seventeen. Not that it would be Vili, of course, but that it would be _someone_.

Sigurd had told her, so many times, that marriage meant nothing. He played dutiful husband to a point, when they were in Fornburg, but when they were raiding he acted nothing like a married man. Eivor supposed that would not be too bad a life, except—

Except she was not going to have a _wife_ , as Vili himself pointed out to her, to stay at home and wait for her return. She was to _be_ the wife—and perhaps Vili, who knew her, would not expect her to live that life, but his _people_ would, and might quietly judge a wife that went a'viking and never bore heirs.

"… have you accepted?" She asked, carefully.

"Have I accepted?" Styrbjorn replied, sounding honestly baffled. "It is not my place accept or decline, Eivor, it is your match."

A suspicion was creeping into the back of her mind. "But when Sigurd was betrothed—"

"—he was given the same choice," Styrbjorn replied. "He is to lead this clan one day, I would hardly force such a thing on him as if he were a thrall."

"And he chose Randvi?"

"He chose what he and I both agreed was best for the clan," Styrbjorn replied. He could clearly see that something about this disturbed her, but it was plain he didn't know _why._

Truthfully, Eivor didn't know why, either. Of course Sigurd had agreed to it; he did not believe it meant anything, so there was no reason for him to object. Marriage had changed Sigurd's life very little, and provided him with a woman who would one day help him run his clan.

Marriage had given Sigurd a wife, but it would make Eivor _into_ one.

"If it is my choice," Eivor replied, "convey to Hemming Jarl and Vili that I am flattered by their offer, but that I am not prepared to wed."

Styrbjorn looked perhaps a bit relieved. "Your leaving the clan would be a tremendous loss," he admitted, "but were it what you wanted—"

"It isn't," Eivor interrupted. "Sigurd did what would be best for the clan. And I suppose I will, as well."

*

Sigurd was unsurprised, when she told him of Vili's offer, and of her refusal.

"I cannot imagine you as a wife, Eivor," he admitted. "You are perfect as you are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it is not obvious--I have purposefully written this fic so that there is very knowledge of what's going on in the character's heads. I want that to be up to the interpretation of the viewer, much like the game itself.
> 
> That said, I would love to hear what you think everyone's motivations are.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the shortness of these chapters. I usually aim for longer, but with the episodic-ness of this fic (and also with the craziness of the USA right now), shorter is working for me. I hope it works for you too, at least somewhat.

Once, when Eivor was very, very drunk, she asked Sigurd if he loved her.

She knew he did, just as he knew the same—it was obvious to everyone around them that it was so, that Sigurd and Eivor were cut from the same cloth, that there was something about them that made them seem _destined_ to be allies.

There was still something very satisfying in the way he pulled her close, hand on the back of her neck, and pressed their foreheads together as he said "Of course I do—more than anyone. We are joined by blood more meaningful than that of the womb, you and I."

"Yes. More than _anyone_ ," Eivor agreed, fervent in her drunkness,

Eivor never stopped thinking this was true. But the truth of it didn't necessarily mean it was a good thing, for either of them.

*

Eivor was eighteen when she first had sex. Sigurd had picked the man for her

He hadn't _known_ he was doing it, of course.

There had been a young man from somewhere she'd never heard of, who they had freed from a cell during a raid in Trøndelag, who had proceeded to fight alongside them in nothing but thrall's rags. Sigurd had sung the the fellow's praises as they carried him to a friendly port, expressed admiration for his fierceness and his boldness. He'd even hinted that the young man might be welcome on his longship, if he had a mind to join.

Eivor had eyed the young man slightly, at that.

Eivor was no stranger to the male form; there was no modesty on a longship. That said, Eivor had never thought very strongly about what she wanted to see in a man's body. She had never been distracted by arms and asses the ways Sigurd and Dag seemed to be by tits and hips. Voices of a pleasant timbre sometimes caught her ear, were what caused her to turn her head, and she was often stuck by eyes.

This young man's eyes were green.

She approached him in the alehouse at the port, drinking elbow-to-elbow with him. He was handsome, if you liked that sort of thing—dark hair, sharp jaw, broad shoulders, all the _elements_ that made a man handsome were there.

He spoke little of their tongue, and she spoke none of his, but some things did not require much conversation.

She pulled him into the dim alley behind the alehouse, where it was too cold to fully undress, and they rutted up against the wood wall. The fellow was taller than her, but slighter, and Eivor's broad shoulders dwarfed his when she wrapped her arms around him.

She didn't see the young man in the alehouse when she woke the next morning. She _did_ see Sigurd, the only other awake, sitting at a table sipping water

"Why you chose a foreigner, when you could have your pick of Norsemen," Sigurd said to her his tone meditative, "I cannot understand."

"You seemed to think highly of him yesterday," Eivor pointed out.

"There is a difference," Sigurd informed her, "between a man who is worthy to fight beside me, and a man who is worthy of my sister."

"And which of us decides who is worthy, brother—you or I?" Eivor asked, her tone not without humor, as she straddled the bench across from him.

Sigurd eyed her for a moment, that familiar, shrewd look on his face. "If I said that is was my right, as your future Jarl—"

" _Is_ that what you are saying?" Eivor immediately challenged. "Would you truly take your status, your _role,_ and hold it over _me_?"

"… no," Sigurd finally said. "I would never do that to you, Eivor."

*

Eivor had kissed Sigurd once.

She'd been struck across the face, badly—badly enough that the flesh was dangling down off the side of her skull, air against the teeth in the corner of her mouth. Even with that, she had managed to kill the man who struck her, and stumbled over his corpse towards the nearest flash of blue she could see, holding her skin in place with one hand, clutching her axe in the other.

That wound had been bad, but it hadn't been what took her down.

As she had stumbled, blinded with blood, in search of allies, an arrow had stuck her square in the chest. She had fallen, her breath going thin, spots dancing in front of her eyes.

She had thought she was going to die.

And, just as last time, the next face she saw was Sigurd's.

There was no fear, no panic is his face, this time. They were no longer children, and death was no longer a stranger, to either of them. If anything, the look in his eyes was _rage_.

"Is she—" Dag yelled from behind Sigurd.

"Finish off these whoresons," Sigurd cut him off in a snarl, as he snapped the tail off of the arrow in Eivor's chest. It was placed such that he couldn't put Eivor over his shoulder without jostling it, so Sigurd heaved her up into his arms like a bride, as if she weighed nothing.

"My axe," Eivor gasped, with what felt like all the air in her body.

"You will not need your axe," Sigurd snapped instantly, "because you are not dying."

" _Please_ ," Eivor insisted, and for a moment her father flashed through her mind, his ignominious, empty-handed death.

Sigurd's hands were full of her. It was Dag who shoved her axe against her chest.

"I would not miss the chance to fight you forever in Valhalla, whelp," he grunted, roughly, and then turned back to the fray.

Sigurd carried her all the way to the longship, even though the battle was not yet done, and laid her out gently on one of the benches, throwing his own cloak over her when she began to shiver.

"When I see Odin," She whispered, suddenly utterly serene, "I will sing him your praises."

"Stop your nonsense," Sigurd snapped back, fiercely. "It is only a scratch."

He had called her last one a _kiss_ , Eivor thought.

With the last of her strength, she pulled her head up off the bench and pressed her mouth against his. When she fell back, it was to see Sigurd's green eyes wide, his mouth apple-red with her blood.

*

Eivor did not die. She did not know _how_ to.

*

They gave her her first tattoo, while her face was still stitched closed with twine, so tight that she could not open her mouth.

Sigurd watched, had even offered his hand for her to grip, but she had slapped it away. Pain was no stranger to a drengr of the Raven clan, and this pain, at least, _meant_ something—something other than death.

When Svend had finished, a flight of ravens swept over Eivor's breast, flying towards her heart.

She had not been born into the Raven clan. But she swore that she would die there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sort of dreamlike chapter, and I'm quite fond of it. I hope you are, too.

Eivor had always been prone to strange dreams.

When she was young, they had been nightmares. Dreams of fire and death, and a pervasive sense of helpless desperation that invaded her sleeping mind, made her always wake feeling as if something were crawling under her skin, trying to claw its way out.

The dreams had changed, once Styrbjorn and Sigurd had taken her to Fornburg. Suddenly, there was a clarity to them.

She finally knew that, all along, she had been dreaming of the end of her clan.

Sigurd was in the dreams, sometimes—it did not entirely look like him, but she knew that it was. The sense of peace that come over her on seeing him, even in the dream, was unmistakable.

She'd spoken to Svala about the dreams, once. The look that the seer had given her was abruptly keen, piercing, as if she were trying to see inside of Eivor, to see the thing that sat beneath her skin.

"It is not uncommon," she had finally told Eivor, when she looked away, "for people who are … _attuned_ , in certain ways. I have had similar dreams myself."

Eivor had blinked. "Do you mean that I am a seer?"

"I mean that you are special, Eivor," she had replied. "But surely you knew that already."

She had told Sigurd, later, of what Svala had said—because she told Sigurd everything—and he had looked thoughtful.

"She's right, you know. I've had dreams like that, too."

*

When Eivor was nineteen summers, and it had been ten years since she had left it, she went to Sigurd. "I want to go back to Heillboer."

Sigurd gave her a look she could not read. "Are you asking permission? You will need to go to father for that."

"Styrbjorn will just tell me no," Eivor replied, her voice going hot. "He has told me there is nothing but ghosts left there."

"He is right," Sigurd agreed mildly. "Are ghosts what you seek, Eivor?"

"You do not know what is there because you have not _been_ ," she snapped back. "That land was my cradle. It was to be my _birthright_. Is it so strange that I wish to see it?"

Sigurd was quiet a long moment at that. "You will not find what you are looking for there."

"How can you know that, when _I_ do not even know what I am looking for?" Eivor demanded, and Sigurd smiled at that, a thin, almost sly little grin.

"Because I know you better than you know yourself."

Eivor took that in, let it simmer a moment in the heat of her sudden anger. "You think you do," she said finally. "There is _much_ about me you _choose_ not to know, Sigurd Jarlsson."

Sigurd replied, tone still mild, "There is much you try to keep hidden, Eivor Jarlsdottir. What kind of friend or brother would I be if I revealed your secrets?"

They stared each other down for a long, tense moment, the very air crackling with the power of their long acquaintance, and what that meant between them. It might be true—Sigurd might, in fact, know Eivor better than she did herself. But the reverse was true, as well.

"I don't hide anything from you," Eivor said, holding Sigurd's gaze tightly. "I _couldn't_. But there are just some thing I do not say aloud, because saying them will not change anything—will it?"

It was just as well they were alone, because anyone with them would have been crushed under the weight of what was not being said. Sigurd cocked his head, and smiled.

"I suppose we will never know, if you never speak it," he said.

It was said calmly enough, but it stung Eivor oddly, felt like a taunt.

"Will you take me to Heillboer," Eivor finally said, voice tight, "or not?"

"My dearest Eivor," Sigurd replied, cocking his head, "you know that anything you want of me, you need only ask."

*

They disembarked on the coast near Heillboer three days later, at dusk. Eivor felt like ice shot through her when she set her feet on the soil.

The blood of her clan had soaked into this earth. He father had died in front of her, in front of the ritual stone she could see in the distance, empty-handed and kneeling like a sacrifice.

Like a coward.

"I need to do this alone," she said to Sigurd, standing beside her.

He did not argue with her. He also did not leave.

" _Sigurd_ ," she insisted.

He still did not argue. He only cocked his head, eyes lidded. "I thought you did not hide anything from me?"

"if ghostly whispers linger here, they are for my ears alone," Eivor replied "and if you come, I fear they might not speak at all."

Sigurd's expression turned mulish, but he took at step back at that, and then knelt, hands on his knees—a meditative pose. "Then I will wait here."

She would have preferred he return to the ship, so that she could not feel his eyes on her back at she walked the once-familiar path from the dock to the settlement, but she could not force out the words, with her heart in her throat as it was.

The land was taking back her former home. Shrubs and fast-growing brush had swallowed much of the pathways, and the ashy shells of building were collapsing on themselves.

There was a lingonberry bush growing in the same spot where her father had fallen. The blood-red berries were as bitter as wormwood on her tongue.

The longhouse had suffered the worst of the fires, barely anything left but the frame, gaping open towards the sky like a giant's ribcage, like the bones of Ymir. It creaked ominously when she set foot on the rotting floorboards, the timbers groaning like a dying man as Eivor picked her way through the remnants of the long-passed feast. The food had long since rotted away, but wooden plates and bowls still sat on the tables, as if waiting to be filled.

In her parent's bedchamber—the fine linens stripped as spoils, only the bare straw mattress remaining—she saw a flash of color beneath the frame. When she fished it out, it was a a small cloth doll that her mother had sewn, the small figure bare-headed, as Eivor herself had always been, when she lived there.

Eivor felt like she was in a dream as she laid the doll on the mattress, drew her dagger, and gathered all her hair into her hand.

She sawed it off right down to her scalp.

She laid the long plaits out on her parents' marital bed, beside the tiny likeness of herself, and she felt oddly light when she turned away, cold air on the bare back of her neck.

When she left the shell of the longhouse, Sigurd was standing amid the shrubs by the ritual stone. She tried to feel surprised, and failed.

He raised his eyebrows at her appearance, but what he said to her was, "You know, I killed my first man here, in this gathering place."

"And I saw my first man die," Eivor replied. There was something like a sneer in her voice when she said, "My own father."

"He meant well," Sigurd offered.

"He died as a coward, for the promise of a liar. For _nothing_."

Sigurd pursed his lips thoughtfully, but did not argue. "He loved you."

"Much good it did me," Eivor murmured. "I am ready to leave."

*

On the longship, as they wound their way through the fjords back to Fornburg, Sigurd shaved off the awkward tufts of hair that Eivor had not been able to reach, her skull cradled in his hand.

Svend scrawled a magnificent raven on the side of her shorn head, where she would need to keep the hair shaved to see it. When she bent over the dock to look at her reflection in the water, to see it, a drop of blood fell right into the center of the image, marring her face with ripples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand that, if you travel to Heillboer in the game, it is treated as the first time Eivor had been back--I found that hard to believe, so I disregarded it. In any case, I don't find that it makes for an interesting fic to been too slavishly devoted to the canon. We all know the lines and events in canon, I want to write a new story.


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